Allergies
by HeiHeiTstesetyun
Summary: World War Two drabble from the perspective of a woman in denial; Male!ArmeniaXFem!Scotland. "It was only after the quiet train ride home, only after Eileen settled into her quilted bed and saw the empty space next to her that she screamed for injustice until her breath caught in her throat and her eyes glazed wet. Damned allergies."


Allergies

Eileen's hands shook as she tied the sash around her dress. She wished that she could wear pink or purple or green with a blue bow and a floral print, but formal occasions called for black, and so she wore charcoal fabric from her neck to her toes. She curled her red hair with a hot iron and tied black ribbons and white lace into the locks. She blew her nose, damned allergies.

She was a long way from Scotland- far, far away in a land that once reigned over Ararat; the land where her husband was born. She kept her kerchief (the black one that she bought- not her usual blue) by her side, held for her sensitive nose or eyes in case the germaniums and tulips caused them to run. There were flowers everywhere- so many flowers. She had never seen so many flowers.

She hurried, knowing she wouldn't see Alexianos until she reached the venue. She and her mother-and-sisters-in-law hurried along the cobblestone path, the one that led to Yerevan and the church and courtyard. Eileen tripped twice, her legs wobbling in the dark heels. Thankfully, Alexianos' sisters caught her both times. She thanked them and continued to walk.

The church bells pounded and the singer lamented and the duduk sorrowed as Eileen entered. She genuflected before the altar and sat with the rest of her husband's family, who were all dressed in equally formal clothing instead of bright red and green and gold. Alexianos' mother carried a dark handkerchief as well, and she wore dark bows in her hair.

The room smelled sweet with lilac and gerberas and white roses, masking the scent of summer sweat and snotty handkerchiefs. The priest came to the altar and blessed the guest of honor. Alexianos' friends wept- his mother and sisters wept. The priest, too- even his eyes watered. Damned allergies.

Eileen remained composed. Nobody spoke to her- the few that knew English didn't know what to say. What was there to? Nobody understood the inflammation of her senses, the poor Scottish woman's allergic reaction. The singer's voice swelled with emotion and the others broke out in song, relieving their heavy hearts. But Eileen's painted lips were shut. Everyone walked outside, and the pollen only made their faces itch and redden even more.

There was Alexianos. Eileen froze, unsure of what to say. The others wept and wailed to their beloved friend, tears making mascara run and skin blotched with red and sweat. "Alex, jan!" They cried. He didn't answer. Eileen stood, quiet amidst it all, and thought of her husband. She remembered his exceptional manners and warm hugs and gentle touch. She remembered his comforting reassurances when the doctor told them she was barren and the long nights that they spent kissing and touching and laughing before the Second World War that tore her earth apart. She remembered visiting him at the University and sharing lunches on the patio. She remembered him in his uniform, vowing he wouldn't allow the Nazis to do to their subjects what the Ottomans had to theirs. He had always revered justice, and he fought for it until the bitter end. Eileen wondered if flowers grew in the battlefields. She remembered how she held back tears when the soldiers came to her house to speak of Alex. But she, among everyone else's misery, didn't cry then.

Eileen did not watch when Alexianos went below the earth. She kept her eyes raised to the sky, because she knew she would see him there- his form swept by the wind or his wings in the clouds. She would never look to the dirt for him. She heard the sobbing, though, and she vaguely understood that he was no longer walking among them.

Slowly, the mourning souls departed, but Eileen still stood (for how long, she didn't know) and watched the clouds pass. The wailing ceased and the wind whipped her ears and the Armenian summer day turned into a rainy night as water touched her skin- even the angels cried, but Eileen would not.

It was only after the quiet train ride home, only after Eileen settled into her quilted bed and saw the empty space next to her that she screamed for injustice until her breath caught in her throat and her eyes glazed wet. Damned allergies.


End file.
